The Bristol half marathon is upon me, a competitive chance to continue my training, and to practice the careful art of drinking whilst running and not wetting yourself in concentration.
I arrive late on Saturday night and don't get much sleep when I get there. I blame the foam pillows that heat up my face and make it impossible for me to sleep. Lying next to an attractive girl doesn't help either, and with high levels of testosterone barging its way through me, it all adds up to me getting about 3 hours sleep. Not even a expertly executed blow job from the girl helps me sleep.
Sunday morning and the adrenaline kick starts my day and before I know it we're making our way to the start. There's an awful lot of club runners here, with their amusing names and club vests. Everyone's super friendly though, and it's a nice mix of old school runners (8 year old trainers and a casio) and tech head wannabes (multi coloured spanking new trainers with computers on their wrists, an IPhone on the arm, and headphones that look like they're singing backing vocals at a Madonna concert) and I sort of sit in between the two, I've got a Casio and a nano.
The race starts and disaster strikes, my headphones don't work, I can only get sound out of one ear very quietly. This shouldn't really matter but it does, because I set my breathing and pace to the beat and use the breaks in the mixing to judge how fast I'm going. Now I wish I had one of those computer things on my wrist now, but no matter. I turn up the volume as loud as I can and decide to use the mile markers to work out how I'm doing.
There's no mile markers. I don't know how fast I'm going and as we climb over a fly over and out of the city I can see that the first part of the race is just a straight line on a dual carriage way. Now I don't know how fast I'm going, or for how long I've gone that fast for. The pack eventually spreads and my pace plateaus and I start to enjoy the run.
We run directly under the suspension bridge and I can't help remembering that this is a notorious suicide spot, where lots of people throw themselves off. I instinctively run faster as I go under, just in case somebody lands on me. I think about how brave people can be to be able to end their lives like that, or any other way in fact. My mind wanders to the people who jumped out of the world trade centre, seeing as though I am running on the day of the tenth anniversary.
Death. whether it be self inflicted or otherwise is life's great leveller. Everything that you do will not stop it. A fact that can either free you or haunt you. This would play on my mind even more later in the day when my friend Carl tells me that he saw a runner being chest compressed on the route (he died at that very spot).
Then a girl throws a jelly baby at me.
Not one, about 4. And they bounce off my chest and one hits me on the cheek. It feels like I'm being given a pearl necklace by a gummy bear.
I try to remember from the route guide what mile the first isotonic drinks station is, I think it's mile 7, so when I pass it I calculate that by the time I pass the bridge again and head back into the town I'll be at around mile 10 and on the home stretch. This inescapably bad maths and guesswork would come back and bite me on the arse.
I pass the bridge, go round the underpass and see a mile marker that says '8' on it. Not 10. And I realize that I've fucked myself, I'd gone too hard pushing in for the last 3 miles, when in fact there was double that to go. Then instead of the route retracing its steps back into town, it takes us out and round the houses, where the crowds are actually little families not really cheering you on, more staring at you in the West Country way. Like Deliverance.
I am now wishing the miles away and running on empty, and every mile is harder and harder to run but I drop down to a pace and stare at the floor and just get through it.
Around mile 11 you head back into town, the crowds are bigger and the cheering and name calling begins to raise your spirits. I keep seeing the finish line balloon and think we're nearly done but the route turns right and I'm off again round a lap of a park, through some narrow streets, skipping past women and prams as the try to get to the shops. Finally a left turn and it's the home stretch, I try a sprint finish but my legs are made of wood, and I know that if I push any harder I could do some serious damage, I get there and look up, 1.31, I look at my Casio 1.28, and I'm happy with that.
Afterwards there's collecting bags, handing in pins, hearing rugby results, and chatting to seasoned runners. It's nice. I go to the preplanned meeting point and wait for Carl, which just happens to be a pub, I sit down and enjoy the first pint of lager I've had in 12 weeks.
From the official results I came in 322 out of 10,000, in a time of 1.29. And I managed to achieve a personal goal that I'd set myself for 2011,
I beat a wheelchair competitor.
It's not all about times you know? Sometimes you have to beat a disabled.
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